All That's Left of You
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: The Goblet knows who the champions should be, it knows who should compete, and who should watch. Somehow, it knows everything, all of it, even who Cedric Diggory could be.


Title: All That's Left of You

Summary: The Goblet knows who the champions should be, it knows who should compete, and who should watch. Somehow, it knows everything, all of it, even who Cedric Diggory could be.

Rating/Warning: PG, obvious spoilers for the beginning of book four.

A/N: I'm unbelievably nervous about this! This is my first fic in this fandom and new fandoms freak me out more than I can say. I have to say thanks to my beta, geminigrl11, who is quite lovely and sendintheclowns for cheerleading on this one even if she hasn't read a single book :)

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the universe.

-o-

_Time it was and what a time it was it was,  
A time of innocence a time of confidences. _

Long ago it must be, I have a photograph  
Preserve your memories, they're all thats left you 

-Bookends by Simon and Garfunkel

-o-

Take a strip of parchment, write down your name, then enter it in the Goblet. It's that easy, and it's that hard. The Goblet will do the rest.

It sounds so simple easy, like First Year Transfiguration, taking a broom into the air, breathing in another breath.

Anyone seventeen years or older can enter, can take that chance. Just put your name in, cast your lot into the mix, and let the Goblet decide.

Because somehow the Goblet knows, he doesn't doubt that.

The Goblet knows who the champions should be, it knows who should compete, and who should watch.

Somehow, it knows everything, all of it, even who Cedric Diggory could be.

-o-

Dumbledore has always been one for oddly simplistic lavish speeches. Great in their ideas, almost comically facile in their delivery. It's part of who he is, and no one doubts that, especially not the wise old wizard himself.

This time, it doesn't matter. The approach, the words, the tone—all are irrelevant, because the student body is _ready_. Cedric listens with the rest of the students, eager and curious as Dumbledore explains.

The students titter with anticipation, gossip in wonder, and try to figure out who will enter, who will be picked. They've been speculating, planning, for months, and the day has finally come. Twenty-four hours, just twenty-four more hours until the annals of history are opened.

He doesn't whisper with them; he barely even feels his Housemates pounding cajoling fists into his shoulder. He's too mesmerized by the dancing blue flame, fierce and solitary, igniting beneath Dumbledore's steady wand.

His dinner sits uneaten, and he leaves almost in a trance, dreaming about what it could all mean for him.

-o-

It's about glory.

Of course, Dumbledore says it is about other things. About coming together, forging relationship, testing oneself. It was about pride and friendship and good-willed competition.

But it is mostly about glory. That's what his classmates want. He can see it on their faces, reflecting eagerly in the glow of the Goblet of Fire.

They want glory for their Houses, glory for themselves. They want to make a name, make their mark on history. The tournament has a history of eternal glory, as nebulous and powerful as the flames that lick up from the Goblet of Fire.

But as they talk and joke, Cedric thinks they've missed the point. It's about so much more than glory. It's about sacrifice, too. About putting himself in, part and whole, and letting the fire burn away to see what emerges on the other side.

It's a proving ground, a magical refiner's fire that scorches through the facades of who people are, burns through the dreams and guises people hold onto, blaze everything away until the only thing left is the true self. What a person really is. That's what this tournament is about, he realizes. A way to define himself.

Maybe that's why his stomach turns with anticipation. Not the glory, because Cedric has no need for glory. His father has sought it long and hard enough, and Cedric has watched his classmates struggle to attain it. He's seen everyone around him toil and preen and come away with so little. He just doesn't get it. Cedric just doesn't care about that. He doesn't care if anyone remembers his name, remembers who he was, remembers anything about him. All Cedric wants to know is who _he _is.

Because after seventeen years, he still doesn't have a clue.

-o-

All the students go, at one point. They all go and linger, just beyond the line, close enough to feel the heat. It's hard not to. The Goblet flickers with fire, and the students are drawn to it like moths. Most of the time, the watching crowd is silent. The younger students are awed by it; the older ones anxious. Students cross the line, one by one, only to return to cheers and well wishes.

Cedric stands there with his friends, and they're all pushing him, poking him. "Come on," they say. "You could do this."

And Cedric knows they're right. He could do this. He could walk up to the cup and let his name fall inside. He thinks of all the kids who want to, the ones too young to try, the ones who try anyway. He thinks of the pride on the faces of those who have, their smiles wide and anxious and buoyant.

It's all glory to them, Cedric remembers, that's what they want.

That's what his Housemates want, what they think he can bring them.

He's not the kind of boy who likes to disappoint people. It's not in his nature. All he has sometimes is the pride of others, and too often, he knows that's all he seems to achieve in life.

It's not that he doubts he could do it. He's achieved much for the sake of others. Three tasks doesn't really seem like much more.

But it's the Goblet that makes him hesitate, with its fire burning inside. He's not sure he wants to put his name in that, put _himself_ in that, because maybe he's afraid that when the parchment is burned up, all that will be left are ashes.

-o-

He knows what people think of him.

He knows his Housemate love him because he can ride a broom and catch a snitch. He knows they look up to him for the way he can make anyone feel at home, the way he can talk to anyone without hesitation. They've made him popular, think he's the shining star of Hufflepuff, because they are the forgotten House, the House of the leftovers and the timid and almost everyone knows it. At least, everyone thinks they know it until they look at him, and his Housemates _like_ that. They like to make him their poster boy, because he does so well in school, has so many friends, and is so successful on the pitch.

He knows the rest of the school isn't sure what to think. The girls think he's attractive, which makes the guys think he's got nothing going on upstairs. They think he can't be too bright, because he's not a Ravenclaw, he can't be too brave, because he's not a Gryffindor, and he certainly can't be too ambitious, because he's certainly not a Slytherin. They all hold something against him, but just a little, because there's so little of him out there to hate.

He knows he must be trustworthy, because the teachers made him Prefect. He knows he must be liked, because he never has to eat alone. He knows some of them don't get it, can't see how he ended up in Hufflepuff, and wonder if there's some flaw in him that they can't quite see.

He knows all of this, can see it in their faces, and he isn't sure what he thinks about it. Because for as much as he knows what they all think of him, he just doesn't know what he thinks of himself.

-o-

His friends won't let it drop. They've been all over him since the announcement was made, eager and anxious, telling him he's the one who should try for it.

He laughs at that, and tells them that maybe _they_ should.

They scoff at that, pulling on his arm, hands on his back. "It's you, Cedric," they say, and they say it like they _know_. "You're the one the Cup will pick."

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't pull away. He can't pull away. He doesn't know how. "Who am I that it'd pick someone like me?"

They laugh at that, chortling at him as if he is just some silly boy. "If not you, Ced, then who?"

Before he can protest, they're dragging him to the Common Room, whooping and bouncing with the promise of another shot at glory.

Their excitement is contagious, and Cedric just follows them wherever they go.

-o-

Cedric likes his classes. He always does his homework, and if his teachers call on him, he knows the right answers. He always looks for the best in things, always believes them when they tell him this will be important for his future, and it seems to Cedric that he doesn't have much else to be doing but learning anyway.

He loves his broom, and he likes soaring high above the pitch, his eyes squinted and concentrated for any glint of light. He doesn't always win, but he doesn't always need to, and he's okay with that. It's the chase that matters. It's the feeling of anticipation, the feeling of hope surging within him when he catches sight of gold in the sun, and then he's flying toward it like it's the only thing that matters in the world.

He's good at both, but best at neither, and that really seems to be the story of his life. He might be okay with that, but it doesn't seem like he should be, and he's still left with all these questions about how and why and who.

Sometimes, he knows that the answers he's looking for can't be found in a book. Sometimes, he knows the answers can't be caught like a snitch. The questions he's really asking are even more elusive than an obscure potion, even harder to hold onto than a glinting, flying sphere.

-o-

It's late at night and his bunkmates are asleep. He lies on his stomach, the covers pulled up over his head, and he has his wand out, illuminating the space softly with light.

There's a piece of parchment in front of him, and he holds a quill in his hand. He stares at the parchment, wondering if the words will form themselves, almost wishing that they would.

With even strokes, he writes his name. _Cedric Diggory_.

His handwriting is clean and simple. The name stands out in the black ink, and somehow, it seems more solid that he thinks it should.

_Cedric Diggory_.

That's his name, that's who he is, that's who everyone knows he is.

_Cedric Diggory_.

He stares at it until the letters become blurred and he barely can recognize the words they form. It's foreign to him, like reading another language, and for a second he wonders if they have any meaning at all.

But they're just letters. They aren't him, and they never will be. Finding himself isn't as easy as putting letters on a piece of paper, and he's not sure what he thought this would accomplish.

He crumples the paper, annoyed with himself. He never should have let them talk him into this. He never should have let them carry on the way they did. He's not a Triwizard Champion. He's not anyone.

When he wakes, it's still early, too early to be up. He's still holding his wand and the crumpled piece of paper is next to him, the quill nearby. He shifts and pokes his head out, finding the room still and silent with sleep.

He looks back at the parchment, balled and rejected, and suddenly has a pang of regret. He takes his wand and whispers the spell and watches as it straightens itself once more.

The name is still there, written in his neat script.

_Cedric Diggory_.

He's not sure why, but he rips off the strip with his name on it, and folds it into his fist.

-o-

He goes back when the crowds are gone, when his Housemates are all in their beds, asleep in the dawning day. He doesn't usually go out before the day begins, too set on keeping the rules, but somehow it draws him back.

It looks lonely now, at the front of the hall, the flames dancing in the stillness, never wavering, never gaining.

He watches the flames for a while, wondering how they're made. He knows they're magic, but he still can't stop himself.

Standing on the edge of the age line, he can feel the parchment in his clammy fingers. All he would have to do is step forward, cross the line, raise his hand, and drop the paper in. It doesn't seem so hard, and he can almost see himself doing it.

He aches with it, yearns for it, but it's not glory that he wants. He wants it as much as he fears it. He wants to know if there's something left, something more to _him_, and this seems like it could be his only chance to do it.

The moment is right, but he seems paralyzed. It's want and expectation, desire and need, and he's just Cedric Diggory and he hasn't got a clue what that means.

His Housemates will forgive him if he doesn't enter.

He's just not sure he'll forgive himself if he does.

He's not sure he'll forgive himself if he doesn't, either.

-o-

The walk back to his House is long that morning, measured by his solitary steps. Breakfast won't be served for hours yet, and he knows that students are still curled under the covers, clinging to the last vestiges of sleep. If Filch catches him, there'll be hell to pay, but somehow that doesn't matter. Not today.

He still sees the crackle of the flames, brightening the surrounding dimness, and part of him can feel it burning through his insides, consuming, testing, trying. Parchment burns, a name is nothing more than letters, and he wonders if Cedric Diggory will come through this after all.


End file.
